Shot


     Me

     His death hit me like the train that hit him.  
The bold, fine print detailing his death:  A man 
sitting on the tracks in Palo Alto was killed by 
a [train] at 8:30 p.m. Feb 6.  He was the first 
this year.

     A month earlier, I read a five-page article 
in the local paper about the increase in train
deaths from 11 to 21 yearly.  "The train has
become a popular method of suicide, like the 
Golden Gate Bridge."

     That same day, eleven people died in a mudslide
in Bangladesh.  Children playing with a handgun shot 
their baby sister.  A man beat to death a passerby 
on the street.  No one's story reached as deeply as 
this one man's, sitting on the tracks in my city.


     Engineers, Conductors, Officers

     "Someone who wants to kill themselves
probably isn't thinking about the effect on other 
people -- people who might see him do it."  

     This was a bad one.  His body got trapped 
under the train; we found his foot in a shoe
somewhere behind the second car.  It was a mess.

     No one came to claim his body.  The coroner 
said he was about fifty, some liver damage, poor 
nutrition.  No intoxication or drugs at the time.

    We had to clean the handrails on the cab 
of blood.  The tracks were slippery, too.  The 
gravel, well, you can spray them off with water.

     Commuters usually complain about the delay.
We can't move until everything's settled and done.
That can be hours.  I overheard one woman saying,
"Another damn suicide."  They just want to go home.


     Him

     I woke up under an arcade of city hall.
Decided when I looked at the gray sky, overcast.  It 
looked like nirvana, a sort of infinite expanse of
nothing.

     I started packing my belongings.  Made a 
neat, tight pile of clothing, mirror, can opener,
toothbrush, prayer beads, and most of my things,
then rolled them in the middle of my sleeping bag.  
Placed it around the corner of the building, where 
someone could find it.

     The rest of the day, I felt liberated.  No need
to beg for change, endure the scorn of those well-
dressed women in suits, curse the penny-pinchers
who literally gave me pennies while lecturing me
on how to live, watch the college kids and their
naive joy, wear my voice out dry and hoarse, get
prodded by some cops if I happened to fall asleep ...
no, none of that.

     Instead, I strolled around town, like anyone.
Had a donut, no coffee, with my change from last
night.  Went window shopping, from the florist's
to the printmaker's at the end of the line.  Saw
movie posters at the historic theater, showing
Frank Capra films this week.  I used to manage 
a men's clothing store, same as the ones downtown, 
before the store closed.

     Went to the ballpark in a nearby field.  I used 
to play ball with my little boy on Saturday mornings.
My ex-wife never let me see him again; he's probably
working and starting his career right now.  Some kids 
who should've been in school were hanging on the fences.
I sat there awhile, watching them and all their lives.

     At the end of the day, after the sun set, I 
walked slowly to the train station.  It was early, 
so I sat on the benches.  Listen, if you're young, 
dying is a different story.  You haven't seen all 
the possibilities, just started playing rummy.  As 
for me, my life is over.  Too tired to have a family
again, too worn from the streets to get a job.  Sometimes,
you need to accept death before you can begin to live.

     I heard the train whistle, so I hurried south
of the station, climbed down the concrete embankment,
and sat on the tracks.  Some young man came after me
and tried to drag me from the tracks.  I didn't have 
time to explain to him, so I pushed him away.  A small 
paragraph in the paper is all anyone will see of me, 
near the weekly crime statistics, with barely a blink 
while turning the page.




--jennifer crystal chien